Then I would refer to the help my secretary had been to me, and
endeavor to express the satisfaction which an author must always feel
for a suggestion of this kind, or any other, from one qualified to make
them. If there was any gratitude or vanity in my nun's heart, I felt I
could stir it up, if Sister Sarah would listen to me long enough; and if
gratitude, or even vanity, could be stirred, the rigidity of my nun
would be impaired, and she might find herself off her guard.
But I had no opportunity of making my remark. At nine o'clock the door
of the secretary's room opened, the nun entered, and the door was then
closed and locked. Sister Sarah must have been in a hurry that morning.
Just as well as not I might have made my remark directly to my nun, but
I did not. She walked quickly to the table, arranged her paper, opened
her inkstand, and sat down. I fancied that I saw a wavy wriggle of
impatience in her shawl. Perhaps she wanted to know the rest of that odd
incident near Eza. It may have been that it was impatient interest which
had impaired her rigidity the day before.
I went on with the odd incident, and made a very good thing of it. Even
when on well-worn routes of travel, I tried to confine myself to
out-of-the-way experiences.
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